


In Case of Fire

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: After Sansa quarrels with Arya on the traditional Stark family fall camping trip, Jon finds himself unexpectedly sharing his tent, sleeping bag, and more.





	In Case of Fire

Jon woke up and inwardly groaned. 

The memory of the night before flashed back through his mind. He’d just slipped into his sleeping bag when the flap to his tent flew open and in stormed Sansa. 

“I cannot _stand_ Arya,” she huffed, setting up the spot across from him where Arya’s ‘friend,’ Gendry, was supposed to have joined them on the Starks’ annual fall camping trip until he had to cancel last minute. 

Jon himself had almost wished Sansa wouldn’t have been able to make it home from college for the long weekend with juggling two majors, all of her charity work on weekends, and the stream of friends and boyfriends she seemed to constantly entertain, but lo and behold, there she’d been packing the car when he pulled up in front of the Stark house, her hair a long cascade down her back of vivid red to match the autumn leaves. Just like he remembered. Maybe even better after all this time, if he were honest with himself. 

Sansa actually stamped her foot, just to make her point. “I am _not_ going back in there again.” 

Jon didn’t bother to respond. Despite the fact that they were all technically adults now, whenever they were home from college, Sansa and Arya regularly continued their tradition of feuding no less than three times a day, and Sansa would continue to blow off steam no matter what he said or did. 

Finally, she stopped ranting and slid into the extra sleeping bag across from him. 

In an attempt to forget the fact that Sansa Stark laid a mere few feet away and fall asleep, Jon dredged up the most boring thing he could recall from the past twenty-four hours: the camping safety manual Ned always gave each of them to review. Robb and Theon delegated the task to him for their car on the way up, also per usual. “I’m driving, and do you think we should trust Theon with our lives?” Robb said when Jon protested.

_Avoid storing flammables near tents,_ the handbook began its list of guidelines anyone with half a brain and a shred of common sense should already comprehend. _Keep food cold and sealed to prevent spoilage._ He had skimmed over the next part, some crap about what to do in the event of a bear attack, thinking they wouldn’t need it much anyway, but there had been nothing of assistance amidst the guidelines for flash floods, hypothermia, and poisonous plants for what to do when his best friend’s beautiful little sister who he practically spent his entire adolescence daydreaming, night-dreaming, any and all kinds of dreaming about invaded his space. 

_Protect skin and eyes from sun or snow reflection. In case of fire, alert the nearest authorities._

“Jon?” 

He stayed silent. 

“Are you awake?”

He grunted. 

“Do you have the thermal sleeping bag?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Can—could I maybe share with you? This one sucks. I’m freezing.” 

“How about we switch?” 

Sansa insisted, though, that she couldn’t make him do that, despite his resolute claim that he was perfectly fine and actually rather warm, so they compromised by laying out the ordinary sleeping bag across the bottom of the tent and placing the thermal one on top. He offered her some of his clothes too, to no avail. 

“This isn’t proper—” he started to protest as Sansa moved their pillows closer together. 

She rolled her eyes. “Please, Jon, are you from the 1700s?” 

When Sansa slid in beside him, he noticed she only wore a tank top and short shorts. 

“I thought you were cold,” he said, suddenly skeptical of his own meager sleeping attire. His black boxer briefs that felt completely normal a few minutes ago now seemed like they had shrunk into an indecent amount of clothing. 

“I am,” she insisted, “but I hate sleeping in pants and sweaters. They just bunch up until I feel uncomfortable and still cold.” 

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, although he found himself instead thinking about the last time he’d shared a tent with a girl. It had been almost two years ago now, when he’d gone to the mountains for a weekend with Ygritte. They’d snowshoed and cross country skied and sledded, and she’d even taught him to ice climb on a frozen waterfall during the day, and at night, they’d found many inventive ways to keep warm. Was that what this was, his body merely remembering the last time he’d spent the night like this, also beside a girl with flaming red hair? 

And, come morning, it seemed a certain rather annoying facet of his anatomy hadn’t forgotten its night spent beside Sansa either. He wondered if he’d be able to sneak out to take care of the situation in the shower despite the poor construction of the facility, which sported low planks that he could see right out over the top, high bottoms that exposed his knees, and limited hot water. That, and the fact that Theon, who had no shame, possessed no qualms about joining him at the spout right next door and holding a full conversation as he basked in his nude glory. 

Well, it was worth a shot. And plus, maybe it would be a blessing in disguise if the water ran cold. 

 

His morning shower offered a few moments of sweet relief, just enough time for him to find a quick release as the sky lightened in the hour after dawn. He’d dressed there, too, avoiding a still-asleep Sansa for as long as possible. 

All that was fine and dandy until they spent the day hiking up the steep vertical incline of a nearby ridge, and Sansa, still maintaining her feud with Arya, had hurried ahead with him, Robb, and Theon. With those two competing for the lead, Jon found himself constantly positioned right behind Sansa’s long legs and shorts as tight and tiny as the ones she’d slept in, her barking at him to keep up so they could try to catch the other boys. And then there had been the harrowing moment when Sansa slipped on a gravelly section ahead of him, and he’d instinctively reached out to steady her, his hands ending up on her behind as she caught herself before she slid any further. He was fairly certain he’d spent the remainder of the strenuous climb sweating twice as much as usual, and he hadn’t even been able to escape to the solace of the shower upon their return to the campsite, Bran and Rickon besieging him with requests to help chop wood for the night’s fire. 

That brought him back to here, the hell that was the second night of sharing this tent with Sansa an arm’s length away. She smelled warm and sweet, infusing the tent with her lavender and vanilla scent. He didn’t know how she could still manage to smell that good out here away from normal plumbing and in the middle of the forest when he felt like some kind of filthy wildebeest in comparison. 

Perhaps he should have just gone to share with Arya instead, but no, that was what Sansa probably wanted, to have an entire tent to herself. At least tonight he came prepared, wearing a t-shirt and shorts this time, a more appropriate outfit rather than his boxers of the night before. 

Sansa had slipped in right beside him, wearing her same infernal tank top with the spaghetti straps and absurdly low neckline—could it even be called that, when it exposed all the skin below her neck, the juts of her collarbones, all the way down to the soft curves of her breasts? 

He remembered the first time he noticed them; he must have been about sixteen, which would have made her… well, far, far too young to think about in such a way, anyhow. He’d been playing some stupid video game with Robb and Theon when Sansa walked in, still in her bathing suit from swimming in the pool outside. She’d complained about them hogging the TV and eating all the snacks, or at least he thought, considering his ears seemed to stop functioning in the moment. Either way, her presence distracted Jon enough to get himself killed in the game, making Theon laugh and question if he’d been asleep or if he could really just be that incompetent. 

God, he’d been a pervert. _Had been?_ He was practically a grown man reminiscing about the first time he’d found himself attracted to his best friend’s younger sister. He would have groaned at his own insolence had the very object of his sick obsessions not been beside him and likely to think such a noise might have been a sound of some other origin. 

_Avoid storing flammables near tents,_ he mentally reviewed as though it were a prayer for his sanity. _Keep food cold and sealed to prevent spoilage. Protect skin and eyes from sun or snow reflection. In case of fire, alert the nearest authorities._

“Jon?” 

He ignored her. 

“Are you awake?”

“Hm.” 

“Don’t you think it would be nicer to sleep outside, under the stars?” 

“To be covered in spiders and wake up all wet? I don’t think so.” He didn’t share the idea that he might quite possibly wake up in a sticky mess of his own making the next morning if his body betrayed him as he suspected it very well might. 

“You’re no fun.” 

He could practically see her pout beside him. “Yeah, you know why?”

“Because you’re always wearing black?” she guessed. 

He rolled over as far as the sleeping bag stretched. “Because some people keep me up all night when I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Sorry.”

He grunted. Why had he even said that? It wasn’t like he’d be able to sleep anyhow, and the depraved thoughts that ran through his mind, keeping him awake, were his problem, not hers. If only he hadn’t just read near on thirty pages of how to contain fires in the woods, how to properly use fire starters in order to avoid lighting up the entire forest, and how to completely extinguish every last lingering ember, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so tempted to self-immolate. 

 

Jon didn’t think he’d ever more relished the exertion of rafting for the entirety of the afternoon, carrying said raft to and from their campsite, and returning to spar with the long, sword-like branches Arya found until he panted before he raced up and down a nearby hill with Bran and Rickon for another hour. 

At least maybe now, at long last, he would be able to sleep. 

He’d woken this morning, harder than ever, and turned towards Sansa to find the locks of her hair mere centimeters from his fingertips. Getting up to relieve himself in the woods had done little to rectify the situation. 

Upon the return from their rafting excursion, he’d taken the opportunity while Sansa had still been off picking flowers or something with her mother to snatch her sleeping back out of Arya’s tent since she still refused to acknowledge her sister or enter herself, having made her other siblings fetch her items on occasion. He spread it out an appropriate distance away, but by the time he returned to the tent, Sansa had already slid under their makeshift area and was apparently asleep, not having noticed his addition. 

Whatever. Jon came even better prepared this time around for another night of torture. He wore a long-sleeved thermal shirt and compression leggings under his shorts, just to keep everything under control. 

_Keep food cold and sealed to prevent spoilage,_ he started his nightly ritual. _Protect skin and eyes from sun or snow reflection. In case of fire—_

“Jon?” 

He didn’t respond, hoping he’d imagined her voice or that maybe she’d uttered his name in her sleep, not that that was any better. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? You seem really… sweaty.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re colder than I am.”

“Maybe I am,” he snapped. 

“Your pants look warm,” she said. “If you’d offered me those, I would have worn them.”

He stayed silent. The thought of Sansa wearing his pants did weird things to him. 

“Anyway, I’ll let you sleep. I just wanted to make sure you were all right and check if I’m going to need to get that emergency bucket of water next to the fire pit during the night.” 

He almost offered a laugh at that one. Apparently, she had read the safety manual, too. Instead, he lied, “I’m fine.” 

Fine? _Fine?_ If anyone was fine, whispered the traitorous voice in the back of his mind, now worming its way to the forefront, it was Sansa. Certainly not him, anyhow; he could already feel perspiration dripping down the back of his neck, the tight pants constricting uncomfortably, his hands awkward in any position he tried to fold them. 

He forced himself to progress onto the next section of the manual, the part focused on directions for practicing intricate knots, the kinds he’d done a thousand times to set up the tents, secure supplies on windy days, and tie down tarps, yet he found he couldn’t picture how to do any of them. Hell, why did it matter? Who cared when he could probably just ask Sansa, what with all the twists she did in her hair that looked a hundred times better than anything he could fumble together… her hands smooth, deft… those hands in _his_ hair… 

 

He must have drifted off at that point, because he woke to Sansa’s foot in his ribs. 

Jon blinked a few times, not taking much more than that to focus on her standing above him, still in her teal blue shirt that dipped low between her breasts and her tight shorts that seemed to make her already long legs stretch for miles. At least Ygritte had worn decent clothing… well, until he’d taken it off her. That wouldn’t be happening here, though, no, nope, never, so he might as well push it out of his mind now before his body got other ideas. 

“Are you coming, Jon?” she asked innocently, so far from the gutter that his mind had degraded into. 

“What?” he snapped. 

“To breakfast,” she said, shifting in a way that somehow made her shorts seem to ride higher and her shirt seem to slip lower. “Robb and Theon are starting the fire and Dad is going to make bacon.” 

He told her to go on ahead without him, seriously doubting there would be any bacon left by the time he was through in the shower, and he ended up just managing to snag the last two pieces before he went off biking for the day with Robb and Theon. 

The trip had been nice and all, with views of green grassy fields and the bright blue sky and the crests of the mountains in the distance, but most interesting had been the sight he’d encountered upon his return to their campsite: Sansa and Arya, talking normally, gathering the perfect twigs to make that night’s s’mores, even if Sansa ran off in a huff the second he asked if he could help. 

He spent what felt like an eternity preparing dinner, sticking slivers of chicken and beef and vegetables on skewers for kabobs, eyeing Sansa as she stood a few tables away, wrapping foil around ears of corn to roast over the fire, followed by hours of endless s’mores dragged out with Bran and Rickon’s incessant requests for more scary stories around the fire. After Robb told his about the legend of a wolf-man haunting the woods, Sansa announced she’d heard enough and headed off to bed, and Jon did the same once he completed his tale about ice zombies, leaving them in the questionable storytelling hands of Theon. 

Sansa faced away from him as he undressed. He slipped back into his regular t-shirt and shorts, deciding to abandon his outfit of the night before—it had barely concealed his morning wood and only served to make him uncomfortably hot. 

She didn’t speak this time when he lifted the sleeping bag to slide under, nor when he tossed and turned to find a comfortable spot, or when he purposefully slurped some water out of his bottle, just to see her reaction. 

_Protect skin and eyes from sun or snow reflection,_ he tried, to steady his heartbeat and rapid breathing. _In case of fire…_ Who bloody cared, when he was about to set this whole thing up in flames anyway? 

He cleared his throat. “Sansa?” 

He felt her shift beside him, so he knew she was still awake. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

She rolled over to lay on her back, staring up at the canvas ceiling. “Why do you think?”

He wondered if he could call her bluff and get to the truth. “Because you can’t stand Arya and are too stubborn to give up?” 

She laughed. His ego would have been wounded if the sound hadn’t been so damn nice. “No, Jon. I’ve been dealing with Arya for the past eighteen years. I can handle her.”

“Then why—”

“How dense are you?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Never mind.” She turned away from him again, but his curiosity had been piqued. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Nothing, Jon. Just go to sleep.”

He waited a beat. “I can’t.”

“Now you can’t? After turning over and passing out instantly the last three nights?”

“I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t. It’s fine, Jon. I get it.”

He knew better than to admit that he didn’t for real. “Sansa, please. If something is wrong, let me try to fix it.”

“Nothing is wrong, Jon. It was just a stupid idea I had, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He couldn’t see in the dark, but her voice sounded oddly strangled, like she might have been on the verge of crying now.

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Sansa.”

“You would, if you knew.” 

“I don’t think anything could make me think that, really. Well, except for that one time you thought dating Joffrey was a good idea.”

She reached backward and shoved his shoulder. “All right. Fine. But you can’t laugh.” 

“Promise.” He didn’t know why he agreed to that, only that he didn’t think he’d be able to anyway with the again mounting situation beneath the blankets. 

“This is my totally lame way of trying to tell you I like you because I don’t know what to say to you,” she confessed. “And now you probably think I’m weird and crazy, too, and completely pathetic.”

He blinked once and again into the darkness, wondering if putting on a light would help clarify the situation. Sansa _liked_ him? Sansa liked _him_? 

“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” he said. No, pathetic would be the way he always thought about how her blue eyes would look gazing up at him, smiling at him instead of glaring, how his favorite moments of spending time at the Stark house usually weren’t laughing or goofing around with Robb and Theon but the ones he spent with her, when they shared an unspoken understanding of how ridiculous everyone around them could be, how he had imagined this exact sort of scene in his wildest dreams about a thousand different ways. So yeah, he thought he knew pretty well what constituted ‘pathetic.’ 

“You don’t have to be so nice about it,” she said. “This was totally inappropriate. Being around you like this makes me feel like I’m a freshman in high school again.” 

“High school?” 

“Yes.” He could practically feel her rolling her eyes again. “Is it really so out of the realm of possibility that I would have developed a crush on my older brother’s only friend who didn’t try to keep me from playing with them or tease me or make passes at me?” 

“I, um, I guess I missed that,” he admitted. 

“No offense, Jon,” she gave a short laugh, “but you miss a lot of things.”

He supposed she was right, but he definitely hadn’t missed the way Sansa had grown taller and more beautiful over those years he spent at the Stark house, and how kind she was to everyone even if she and Arya didn’t always get along, and how smart and spirited she could be when she knew what she wanted. 

“So… you were hoping something would happen here?” he said, to clarify, because he still didn’t really comprehend what was happening. 

“I mean, yeah, but it was totally stupid and so awkward for you and I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I swear, I don’t think any of those things.” He meant for his voice to come off as forgiving, sympathetic, even, and not in the low, dangerous rumble that it did. 

“What do you think of me, Jon?” Even through the darkness, he was sure she was staring at him now. 

“I think… you’ve made these past few nights difficult for me,” he said, deciding to be honest. 

“And why’s that?” 

He took his turn to be cheeky. “Why do _you_ think?” 

Along the course of their conversation, Sansa had moved closer to the edge of her pillow and he to his, so when she spoke again, the smooth, coppery strands of her hair laid only a few inches from his fingertips. “I… don’t even know.” 

“Come on, Sansa.” They laid so close he could see the crystal blue of her eyes, bright even in the dark. “I know those other guys you dated were jerks, but really?” 

“I don’t know what to think, because you’re… you.” She brought a hand up to push an errant piece of hair behind her ear, her fingers nearly grazing his in the process. “You’re the nicest guy I know, really, even when I’m giving you shit for it. And I know you’d never take advantage of a situation like this, even when I’m practically throwing myself at you.” 

Three days ago Jon certainly would have agreed, reminding himself of all the reasons they shouldn’t, because she was Robb’s sister and he didn’t deserve her and this would complicate all kinds of things. But three nights lying beside her had weakened him, so when Sansa bit her lower lip the same way in which he’d seen her eye lemon cakes on frequent occasions, in an expression of want he’d never been able to resist, he swooped over and kissed her. 

Sansa’s lips moved pliantly against his own, a silent confirmation of her desire if his ears still hadn’t quite registered her spoken ones. As if to prove her point one more time, her tongue darted into his mouth, still tasting like burnt marshmallow and chocolate and so, so sweet. 

His hands found their way into her hair, running through those magnificent locks he always admired at long last, gorgeous hair the color of fire flowing through his fingers as he drew her closer. 

Sansa leaned backward, taking him with her, her hands fisted around the front of his shirt. She pulled away, sounding satisfyingly breathless. “Does this mean you can take off all those ridiculous clothes now?”

He glanced down at his black t-shirt and shorts. He knew he didn’t dress fancy, but he didn’t think there was anything wrong with his monochrome wardrobe that never went out of style, not that he would even know what was in style in the first place. “What do you mean?” 

She laughed. “Come on, Jon. You’ve slept over at our house enough times for me to know you don’t actually dress like that for bed.” 

Wanting to replace her smirk with something else—a look of awe, or simple appreciation, maybe, if he was lucky—he sat up and stripped off his shirt. “Happy?” 

Her grin was even better than he imagined, and she mirrored him, removing her own thin tank top. He squeezed his eyes shut and popped them open again, just to make sure he hadn’t accidentally fallen asleep and was now experiencing an extremely vivid dream because there was no way this could actually be happening. 

Perhaps still in disbelief, he rocked his hips into hers just to be certain, already hard. Sansa gasped at the contact, making his cock jump against her which caused her to giggle, which made him throb even harder. He didn’t understand how she could claim to be so cold when she felt so hot, her bare skin soft against his chest.

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

He groaned his assent. 

“I’m glad I slipped on those damn rocks the other day.” She tilted her hips upward, rubbing against his erection again. “By far my all-time favorite rescue.” 

The only rational part of his brain left urged him to remind her of the time he helped her dig her car out of two feet of snow when it got stuck at the end of the driveway, when he warned her a few years back on Halloween of a clown-costumed Theon hiding in her closet poised to spring in his idea of a practical joke, of when only a few months ago she’d asked him to pretend to be her boyfriend for a few exhilarating moments when she saw him out at a bar and some psycho named Ramsay who she’d denied in every way possible kept creeping back. 

But the lower, more basic parts of his brain followed their instinct, prompting his hands to slide beneath her body and wrap her tighter legs around him. 

Sansa continued, unaware of Jon’s ongoing struggles to maintain his sanity. “And you smelled so good the other night, after you were running around with Bran and Rickon…” 

He felt torn between hearing her revelations and claiming her lips with his own, so instead he compromised by letting them slide down her throat and over her chest as she spoke. 

“I also wanted to tell you how hot you look with your hair up,” she added, her voice now dropping into a sultry whisper, and Jon vowed right then and there to wear his man bun for every last one of his days if Sansa approved, no matter the flak he took from anyone else. 

He worked his way downward with her encouragement, her hand in his hair, opening his mouth over the peaks of her breasts and continuing his path over her belly, all the way to the waist of her shorts.

“Can I take these off?” he asked, his voice practically a growl now. 

Sansa nodded. 

At any other moment, if they had all night, he would have taken his time, caressing Sansa’s long legs, kissing up her thighs, slowly sliding her shorts down before he repeated the same long, drawn-out process with her underwear. The tent was too dark and his need too urgent to admire what he was sure were some very fancy, lacy undergarments; he no longer felt any shame in admitting to himself that he had in fact imagined on several occasions what they may look like. He decided he might have to accidentally, mistakenly pack them with his things at the end of all this. 

But they didn’t have all night. They had to be up at practically the break of dawn to take down the tents, pack up, and drive the several hours back to Winterfell. Instead of wasting time on inanimate objects, he barely paused to experience the thrill that was having Sansa Stark naked before him, her hands stroking over the muscles in his arms and abdomen, her breathing almost as rapid as his own, and fit his shoulders between her legs. 

“Your ears are cold,” she remarked, bumping against them on one of her rakes through his curls. 

He slipped lower. “Maybe they need to be warmed up.” 

As much as he wished to see her better in the shadows, he almost hoped she couldn’t see him. That way this, tasting her the way he dreamt of for longer than he could remember, would be an even more startling—and hopefully pleasant—surprise. 

He started off low, pressing the flat of his tongue against the wetness of her slit, letting a groan slip out when he heard her gasp, and then he slid upward until he hit his target, the place she’d fervently rubbed against his cock. 

She whimpered, the sound loud compared to the glide of his tongue, the rustling of the sleeping bags, and the crickets and light wind outside. 

“Shh, Sansa,” he said, lifting his mouth from her long enough to hiss the syllables but unable to move his hand away, not when she was this wet, this silky and soft. 

“I can’t, _Jon,_ not when you’re too good at—” 

He bent back to her again, the rest of her complaint fading into a moan. 

Robb and Theon always teased him about his hair, and they were right, it was a point of pride for him, but he would let Sansa tear it all out if it meant he was the cause of her incredible pleasure. Her hands tugged harder the firmer he licked, the more he sucked, his attentions intensifying as she bucked beneath him until she peaked, somehow allowing nothing more than a stifled cry to escape, even if Jon felt the full intensity of her orgasm around his hand and against his tongue. 

He went back to kissing right above his fingers, waiting until she stopped fluttering around them to pull out and back away. 

Sansa sat up in an instant. “That’s—that’s it?” she sputtered. 

Jon poked his tongue out to taste her on his lips. “D’you… do you want that to be it?”

“Hell no,” she said, glancing down at the tent in the front of his boxers which ironically mirrored their current surroundings. She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you already came or something…” 

“No!” he said far too forcefully, even though he’d never confess he probably could have just from that situation alone, considering nearly this exact premise had inspired many a fantasy of his. “No, I didn’t,” he added, and then, before he could really think about the implications, meaning it just as a retort to her lack of faith in him, he said, “You can check if you want.” 

Sansa glanced up with a devilish gleam. 

If anyone had told him four days ago Sansa Stark would be reaching her hands down his boxers and curling her long, perfect fingers around his cock in a tent in the middle of a forest, he would have found few things less believable. Stranger things had happened, he supposed, not that this was necessarily strange, because how could something that strange be this— 

“Gah, so fucking _good,_ ” he gasped. “Wait, wait,” he panted as her slower strokes somehow felt just as good as the faster ones. 

He reached over and fumbled around in his bag until he found his first aid kit and opened it, band aids and gauze tape spilling across the ground in his mad search. 

“You have condoms in your first aid kit?” Sansa laughed as Jon shushed her. 

“If you must know,” he muttered, glad the tent was dark so she couldn’t see him turn red, “They are great for using as fire starters and for keeping phones dry.” 

Despite the canvas of the tent and the sleeping bag below them, the ground was still cold and hard, so he settled back and urged her astride him. Maybe, just maybe, the coolness of the ground would be enough to hold him off for longer than approximately five seconds. 

Sansa was the one who had to shush him then when she lowered herself onto his length. She clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling his ragged breaths and muffling his roar that threatened to rise up. 

“I can’t _breathe,_ ” he insisted, nipping at her fingers. She giggled again, the motion making her clench tighter around him.

_In case of fire… IN CASE OF FIRE…_ Fuck, not even that worked anymore, not when Sansa was this snug and slick and hot... 

She placed her hands on his chest instead, using it as leverage to help her grind up and down on his cock. He would have protested about the pressure, or the little marks he was certain her fingernails would leave there, but each time she sank down on him, he found he couldn’t breathe all over again. 

He let his hands wander upward, sliding along Sansa’s thighs, then wrapping around her hips and catching her rhythm before continuing their ascent, splaying across her stomach and cupping her breasts. He squeezed, eliciting a sharp squeak of an inhale from her. 

She threw her hair over her shoulder so it tumbled down her chest. “Jon, I’m… I need—” 

He maneuvered one of his hands between her legs and pressed his thumb against her. If anyone overheard now, the sounds Sansa made would be rather difficult to explain away. Foxes rustling around and nipping at each other in the woods? Bats tittering from somewhere far off? The ghosts and legends from the stories they told to Bran and Rickon come alive? 

Not that Jon wanted to make an excuse for them, anyway—no, he felt quite proud of his accomplishments tonight that he’d wrought with his tongue and hands and cock, his reward literally coming in the form of Sansa panting his name, squeezing even tighter around him, and the look of pure pleasure washing over her face for the second time that night. 

Sansa collapsed forward in a wave of her hair to press her lips to his, making that all he needed. He drove up into her, not taking much time to catch up with her, almost thankful his longtime, apparently mutual infatuation with Sansa meant he didn’t need more than a few thrusts to be spilling, because he didn’t think he could survive any more of her delicious heat surrounding him, any more of the flames that roared inside of him. The guidebook certainly hadn’t contained any information on how to put out those kinds of blazes… 

“I think I’m adequately warm now,” Sansa said, still sprawled across his chest. 

Jon sighed, sure he, too, could go outside in the chill and probably not even feel it with the fire that burned through his body at the moment, concentrated primary at the points where he overlapped with Sansa. And, perhaps second best to all of that, he was absolutely, certainly, definitely going to be able to sleep tonight, and he didn’t even think he’d mind much this time when he was hard again come morning.


End file.
